


and he's safe,

by tinclown



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Crying, Hero of Kvatch Who is Also the Nerevarine, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Morrowind, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 09:59:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17785280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinclown/pseuds/tinclown
Summary: "It's past midnight," Martin says quietly, words falling out into the still air of the room. It feels like there was something unsaid, sitting just beneath the surface of the conversation. Suffocating.





	and he's safe,

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in like, an hour and a half yesterday. it ain't much but hey  
> happy valentine's day! this did have plot, then it didn't
> 
> if you squint there's some implied nerevarine/dagoth ur but it wasn't really relevant enough to tag, so. fun times

"Adoynis," Martin starts, and it isn't a greeting as much as it is trying to grab all of his attention at once. It works, though the dark elf refuses to show it, blood-red eyes staring at the open pages in front of him. He's been sat here for hours, but he couldn't think of a single sentence he'd read, the knowledge slipping through his memory like water pouring out from the gaps between his fingers. His fingers tap at the edge of the cover, nails lightly tapping on the wood of the desk and in the back of the head he wonders whether or not he should file them down. Keep them out of the way so he can grip his dagger better, hands still trembling like a child's even after everything he's done.

Maybe he should. It wouldn't do if he couldn't hold his blade properly--

" _Adoynis_ ," Martin says, and it's a plead. 

He breathes in, shakily.

"Martin," he whispers, shifting to sit sideways in his chair and look at the heir leaning against the door frame. It's late, he thinks, because when he got back to the temple it had been dusk. Martin should be sleeping, unworried, dreaming of soft fields of dragon's tongue and the sunshine gently resting on his skin. He shouldn't be up, awake, looking at Adoynis with tired, heavy eyelids and that worried frown that Adoynis' mind always comes back to, one way or another, clinging to his thoughts like an anchor dragging him underwater and leaving him to drown and rot.

He wants to wipe that frown off his face. He wants him to be smiling blissfully, eyes crinkling at the edges and laughing, sun gently kissing his skin. Martin crosses his arms, gaze flicking to the floor for only a moment before resting again on Adoynis. He might've not noticed the movement had he not been so focused on the man.

"It's past midnight," Martin says quietly, words falling out into the still air of the room. It feels like there was something unsaid, sitting just beneath the surface of the conversation. Suffocating. Adoynis bites his tongue and Martin continues, but the heavy weight of whatever he left behind doesn't fall off the Dunmer's shoulders. "You should come to bed."

Adoynis smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes, not like Martin's always would. He smiles and he says, "I can't yet. It won't be long now, it's just," and his words choke him, like metal in his throat. But Martin waits, patient. It takes him a moment before he can speak, again, but his perception of time has been knocked so askew that it might've been minutes, centuries that he spent staring into the former-priest's eyes. "It's only that," he sucks a breath in as though he's surfacing after being forced underwater for far too long, "I'm in the middle of--of research and it just can't wait, it can't--" he trails off, but Martin knows him so well, and he knows that Adoynis' words are finished.

The heir walks, slowly, steps barely creaking on the wooden floors over to the hunched form of the Hero, and he moves his hand to Adoynis' cheek, thumb pushing back stray strands of hair. Neither of them speak, Adoynis leaning into Martin's touch, eyes closed. 

It's cold in the study, fire having long since gone out. His candle flickers and dances but the flame is small, unable to do anything but provide a small glow that mostly serves to make the shadows lining the Temple all the more menacing. He would jump at every sound outside the door, wondering if this was going to be the day when the Mythic Dawn finally located Martin, when they finally broke through whatever chains held their Lord away from Nirn and arrived to wreak disaster and agony upon mortals who would never have a chance to be able to defend themselves. But Martin is here.

Martin is here and he's safe, his hand warm and comforting against Adoynis' cold face, and it's only now that he realizes his cheeks are wet, now that he realizes how bad his eyes have really been stinging. He presses his face into Martin's palm harder, and he feels his lip twitch and he feels _pathetic_.

Martin doesn't insult him, though, doesn't scoff at his weakness. No, Martin holds his face in both hands, more gentle than Adoynis had thought any person could be, and he waits. There's no pressure to speak, no forced politeness or blatant bitterness biting into his skin like a spider's poison fangs. It's just him and Martin. Martin, who wouldn't hurt him, who he would die to protect. 

And he thinks he starts to cry, again, but Martin brushes his tears away and doesn't comment on it, and Adoynis thinks that he'll have to go out into some ruins just to find him some sort of gift because he knows he wasn't blessed with words poetic enough to express his gratitude. 

It's safe, he's safe, and--

_And it's dark, dark enough that he can't tell where he is because the shadows consume everything, every single thing in the room except for him. No, the looming figure before him takes up most of his field of vision anyway, hovering close enough that Adoynis can feel his breath on his face, unnaturally cold. And his hands are holding his face, gentle, deformed hands and claws and he whispers, sweetly, such a loving tone they take. "Oh Nerevar," and they lean closer, "you've always been so stubborn." His voice tinges with a tired sort of disappointment on the last word, and Adoynis isn't moving, isn't crying, but it might be because the terror that consumes him refuses to let him move, and he can't move he--_

\--he's safe, he's safe, he's crying and shaking. He's standing now, hunched over, head pressed to Martin's chest. The Emperor's son, the last hope that Tamriel has, he's running his fingers through Adoynis' hair and he isn't speaking, isn't saying a word. He lets Adoynis cry for maybe seconds, maybe decades, and when the Dunmer has since stopped moving that's when he whispers--and it isn't the same, not like _his_ voice, it's not--

"Please. Come to bed. You should sleep."

It isn't a command, but a plead. He doesn't move, doesn't answer for a moment until Martin lets go of him and inclines his head towards the East Wing, and Adoynis walks, steps louder than he lets them be, normally, but he's safe. They're safe.

He doesn't dream of peaceful fields, of sunshine. He wakes up with tears in his eyes but he buries his face in Martin's hair and he doesn't get up, not for another few hours, because it's rare that he feels okay, now, and he doesn't think he wants to let it go like that. So he waits, waits until Martin gets up and he smiles at the heir. Martin smiles back, still groggy, and he knows that he'll be back to the same routine again come nightfall, but he thinks he can ignore the impending sense of death that looms above him like a headsman waiting to execute his prisoner. Martin leans his forehead against Adoynis' and they're both safe, if only for now, and the last hope that the Empire has walks out of the room to start early on deciphering that stupid, stupid ritual.

And Adoynis lies there in wait of Vaermina's grip to seep into his waking world, but he feels less bothered by it, now. Maybe he's grown more unfeeling than he should've, to what happened in Morrowind. But the Three are gone, and with them went the Sharmat and though he's spent so long mourning the death of those people who he'd known once before but not in this life, he feels like he might have the chance to learn to accept it. Maybe, maybe Nerevar can lie deceased and not returning and maybe he can let the Nerevarine lie in the grave with him. Maybe he can be no more than the Hero of Kvatch, instead.

Maybe they'll forget him, all of them but Martin, and he can mean something to someone, something other than being any sort of hero, any sort of living prophecy. And maybe, maybe he can be okay with that.

**Author's Note:**

> adoynis and martin are happy and married in my heart
> 
> here's my tumblr: https://tinclown.tumblr.com/ (it's got links to any other place you can find me)  
> and my elder scrolls sideblog if you wanna send me tes themed hate mail: https://mathieuwu-bellamont.tumblr.com/


End file.
